


Live On

by lanyrainicorn



Series: Secrets [2]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, F/M, I'm sorry about this guys, Jean's POV, POV First Person, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 19:25:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6127527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanyrainicorn/pseuds/lanyrainicorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I don't believe in heaven," she tells me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Live On

**Author's Note:**

> I'm gonna go ahead and apologize for this one, guys. I'm sorry.
> 
> This is set a week after the battle of Trost.

My skin is crawling and I can’t see straight and I feel like I’m going to puke and I _do_ puke, a hot and vile and disgusting _splash_ all over the dusty ground behind the barracks. For a second the world spins and I think I’m going to pass out, but I don’t. I just hit the ground, hard, and curl into the fetal position, my arms scrambling over each other, nails scratching helplessly as I try to latch my hands over my elbows, closing in on myself and trying to disappear, because that’s how I feel, like I’m going to fucking explode or spontaneously combust or _something_. I feel like I’m dying. It feels like the ground is cracking, earth shuttering under my feet, like it’s going to open up any moment and swallow me whole. God, I wish it would.

It’s been a week. A week since the Colossal appeared again and kicked through the wall. A week since titans flooded every path in the city, devouring soldiers left and right, littering the cobblestone with blood and guts and bodies. A week since Eren _goddamn_ Jaeger went fucking Rogue Titan and saved all our asses by plugging the hole in Wall Rose. Five days since I discovered the rotting, stinking fucking corpse of my best friend in the entire world, lying cold and half-eaten and _alone_ on the streets of Trost. And I have no goddamn idea how he died or why he died and it’s fucking haunting me and I can’t escape these memories no matter how hard I try.

 _Marco is dead._ The words flash in my mind, branded behind my eyes by a week’s worth of constant thought and turmoil, and I let out a strangled sob, saliva flying from my mouth, sliding down my chin and mixing with the tears and snot and bile that have already accumulated on the collar of my shirt. I can’t open my eyes because when I do I feel like I’m on a merry-go-round that’s out of control, like I’m in a spinning freefall, just waiting to slam face first into the hard, unforgiving ground. I can’t close my eyes because when I do I see his face, except everything about it is all wrong. Instead of the freckles I’ve grown so fond of there is only blood splatter, a thick noxious spray of red against his olive complexion. That prize winning smile that stretches from ear to ear and crinkles the skin around his eyes is a grimace, half of it rotted away, exposing the teeth and bone and gore underneath. His hair, his soft black hair that was always clean and smelled like fresh pine when he hugged me or when I jumped on him piggyback style is patchy and matted with blood and dirt and God knows what else. My dreams are haunted, every night, by the memories that have yet to fade, that are too fresh to forget.

When I inhale, I swear I can still smell the death and decay, the smoke and burning bodies… I heave again, but this time nothing comes up but air. I don’t know how long I’ve been out here. No one’s come to check on me yet, (and they probably won’t considering this has been happening every night for the past week) and it’s late so they’re probably all asleep. I think even Connie has given up on me, and probably for good reason. There’s nothing he can do to help, and I won’t let him near me when I get like this anyway.

I can’t count the number of comrades, the number of _friends_ that died that day, and I don’t need to count them to know that Marco was the most important to me. He was my sparring partner, my confidant, my best friend and so so _so_ much more. I wheeze out another sob, which causes me to choke, and go into the worst coughing fit of my life. So here I am, rolling around on the dirty fucking ground, struggling not to choke to death on my own spit, crying because my best friend is dead and I’ll never see him again. What do I do? What _can_ I do? I have no idea _what_ to do...

I’m lost, so lost. I’m not thinking straight, so it barely registers that I tiredly pick myself up off the ground, taking my time so my feet don’t slip out from under me and send me whirling back to into the dust. I don’t even realize it as I turn around and head for the girls’ barracks. I _somehow_ manage to traverse the long expanse between the two buildings without throwing up, falling down, or passing out. Lucky me.

I’ve never gone to her before; she’s always come to me. I’ve never been the one in need of comfort, it’s always been her and I’ve always been more than happy to oblige. I knock three times – our signal – and wait. Man, I hope she’s a light sleeper. I don’t even know if she _wants_ to see me. I stand, leaning against the door, for what seems like an eternity with no answer. Hell, maybe she’s not even here. Maybe she’s with Eren, wherever they whisked him off to after he sealed the breach, after his trial.

 _Knock, knock, knock,_ I try again. This time I hear distinct and immediate shuffling on the other side and pray that it’s not one of the other girls – one of the few who actually made it out alive. The door creaks open slowly and I’m faced with her stern expression, which dissipates completely once she sees that I’m the one standing on the other side.

“Jean,” she whispers, easing the door to a close behind her. “You look like hell.” She’s not one for beating around the bush, and nothing if not honest. Because let’s face it, I do look like hell. I look like hell, I feel like hell. We probably all do. We’re _living in hell_ , so we might as well look the part. My chest tightens painfully, and it feels like the air is being sucked from my lungs. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m remembering Marco’s face again or because the most beautiful girl in the world is standing right in front of me, giving me the world’s most pitying, understanding expression.

“I-i’m sorry if I woke you, or if I’m b-bothering you,” I stutter, tripping on the words as they tumble out of my mouth unabashedly. She doesn’t stop me, shaking her head as I continue. “I just didn’t k-know what to do. I c-can’t get that day out of my head. It replays over and over in my mind and all I see is his face and f-f-fucking blood everywhere and it feels like I’m ssss-suffocating all the time a-a-and I-i-i – ” I can feel myself starting to hyperventilate, struggling for air as I suck in sharp, ragged breaths that seem to do more harm than good. I feel like I can’t get enough oxygen in my lungs, burning like someone lit a match in my chest, smoke coiling and squeezing like a vice. I feel so _weak._ Jean Kirschtein is not weak, goddammit. I fucking hate this feeling.

Mikasa’s brow crinkles at my troubled breaths, so she wraps her arms tight around my torso, rubbing her hands up and down my back. She rises up on the tips of her toes, and nuzzles her head into my neck, and I can hear her whispering soothingly into my skin, peppering reassuring mumbles into my flesh and the unrecognizable words seem to seep right through, because before I realize it, I’m taking in deep, satisfying gulps of air and my breathing has slowed to an easy and smooth rhythm. My arms unwittingly clasp themselves around her strong waist as I clench my eyes shut and bury my face in her hair, soaking it with saline tears as they stream heavy and effortless down my cheeks.

She pulls away for a moment to say, “Jean, come with me. I don’t want someone to see us. I don’t want you to get in trouble for being out of bed.” I comply with a nod as she more or less drags my exhausted form around the building, until we stop in front of a pyramid of crates stacked purposefully against the back wall. “Think you can climb?” she asks simply, nudging me out of my daze before she hops lithely up onto the first box. I glance up wearily at the pile of boxes that go all the way up to the roof, before looking back at Mikasa’s blank expression. I nod again. It takes a few tries – I may be the best in ODM but I’m not a damn monkey, for fuck’s sake, so climbing isn’t my forte – but I manage to ungracefully scurry up the makeshift stairway of boxes, following behind Mikasa as she flawlessly scales the crates with ease. Once on the roof, she extends a hand and hauls me up until I’m standing beside her, looking over the darkness of the grassy plains that extend beyond the barracks, farther than my field of vision goes.

She slinks down, sitting on the flat top of the roof and I do the same, putting some distance between our bodies. I spend some time shuffling around, trying to get comfortable on the hard, sunbaked wood before I ask through a snuffle, “Do you do this a lot?”

She doesn’t answer. She just stares up into the nothingness of the sky. There aren’t many stars tonight, just a few dotting the heavens with faint light, distant blemishes on an otherwise clear, dark stretch of space. It goes without saying that my mind is filled with the vision of freckles on suntanned skin. I float around in my own head, dozing, trying to pull forth comforting memories of a warm, affectionate laugh instead of the echoing screaming, the sounds of death. Mikasa’s voice breaks the thick silence and yanks me from the place I’ve buried myself with my thoughts.

“Do you believe in heaven, Jean?” she asks. She’s facing me now, her expression thoughtful and curious.

Do I believe in heaven? I won’t say I haven’t thought about it before. I remember stories from the little prayer books my mother used to read me when I was young. Eternal life, pearly gates, and all that stuff. Either way, I’m not sure where she’s going with this. “I like the idea,” is my response. “But you know as well as I do that an idea means nothing. We can hope and dream and pray until we’re blue in the face, but that doesn’t make something real, or undo things we’ve done, or make our wishes come true… as much as I want to believe, I don’t think I do. Seems too good to be true.” She scoots closer until our sides are touching, loops her arm with mine as her head comes to rest on my shoulder. Our fingers lace together unconsciously.

“I believe,” she says simply. Huh. I’ll admit that I never pegged Mikasa, practical and realistic Mikasa, as the kind to believe in the afterlife and heaven. “I didn’t bring you up here to talk to you about that, though. I want to take your mind off things. What do _you_ want to talk about?” I think about it for a moment. I don’t want to talk about _that day_ , as much as I probably need to. I’m just not ready. My wounds are too fresh, too raw, and I want them to close, scab over before I talk about them. Talk of Marco is out of the question; I came here to calm down, not break down. I don’t want to talk about titans, or training, and I don’t want to talk about myself. In the end, I ask Mikasa to tell me about her parents.

At first she seems surprised that I’d ask her about. Everyone knows something terrible happened when she was just a kid, but no one’s ever had the balls to ask her about it. She begins to recount the day they died, tells me three men came to their house – but I stop her.

“I don’t want to hear about how they died,” my voice interrupts. “Tell me about your mother. What color were her eyes? Do you look like her? Was she a good cook?” She stares at my face, tear stained cheeks and bloodshot eyes, searching for some sense of jest in my expression, and turns away when she finds none.

Instead of stories of blood and tears and lives cut too short, she recounts fishing trips on lazy afternoons with her father, nets and poles in hand as they walked together to the little pond in the woods behind her house. My eyes slips closed and I envision a small, charcoal haired girl scrunching her nose in distaste as her father teaches her how to bait her hook. She describes drying the dishes, the midday sunlight filtering in through the window, revealing particles of dust that waft through the air as her mother hums an old song, broom in hand. I lean down, rest my head on hers as she chatters on about cool mornings spent catching butterflies, evenings ending in a race to see who could capture the most fireflies – ‘ _Mama always won’_ , she announces proudly. Her face is mellow, pleasant, not at all like the expressionless mask that’s always so flawlessly painted on her features. She talks for what has to be hours, narrating countless tales of her childhood, a time filled with love and laughter and whimsy. I just sit there, wrapped up in her, listening, watching her, occasionally laughing along with her in whispered excitement.

I don’t forget about Marco, how could I? But it does put me at ease. My heart is no longer trying to escape the cage that is my chest, my lungs no longer burn with invisible smoke; the threat of suffocation is gone. Right now it’s just Mikasa and me and her memories, the sweet precious memories that probably seem like so long ago to her. After a while she falls quiet, her animated storytelling fading as the first light of the sunrise threatens to peek over the horizon. I smooth a hand through the silky strands of her hair and sigh.

“The sun’s coming up,” I note. “I better head back, it’ll be time to get up soon.” She turns to face me and the look she wears pierces me straight through the heart – as if it didn’t have enough holes already. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her this… happy? Not even when Eren emerged from his titan, when we thought he was dead. Did she look like this then?

“I don’t believe in heaven,” she tells me. My face is a dead giveaway to my confusion. She chuckles a little and continues, “Not in the traditional sense. I don’t know if there is everlasting life, a paradise after you die. But I _do_ think you can live on. I see my mother in the flowers that bloom along the edges of the sparring field, and the ones that spring up fortuitously in the cracks of the cobblestone. Sometimes when the wind blows a certain way, I can feel my papa brushing the hair out of my eyes like he always used to. The same with Carla – at times, certain things will trigger a memory, and I know, I just _know_ that it _has_ to be her, reminding me of better times, showing me that despite everything, we persevere… we live on. We’ll all be okay. I want you to remember that, Jean.” I think she can sense the effect her words have on me, because she brings her hands up to cup my face, pulls me down until my lips connect with hers in a gentle caress. It’s unlike any kiss we’ve ever shared – it’s not rough, or urgent, or full of the unbound yearning that neither of us can give the other, though not for lack of trying – it’s just sweet, encouraging and packed with a mysterious promise.

We say our hasty goodbyes as I carefully slither (okay, more like fall) back down the wall of crates, leaving Mikasa alone on the rooftop. I skulk back to the barracks and slip into bed – my empty bed – before I’m missed, just minutes before Connie wakes with a lively yawn and the crack of every joint in his body. I pull the raggedy blanket over my head as the other boys rouse, and just like every morning, Connie nudges me encouragingly, asks if I’m going to come to breakfast, but unlike every morning, this time I oblige, following him to the dining hall as Sasha joins us on the path. I just look at the ground as I walk, but not before stealing a glance across the way at slate colored eyes which shine with a vigor that wasn’t there before. I feel almost _content_ as I weave my way through the actions of my day.

That night I dream of a vast clearing full of rich, verdant grass that sways with the breeze. There’s a couple, holding hands and walking in silent contentment as they watch a gleeful raven haired little girl skip ahead of them, excitedly plucking up flowers and tossing them into a basket. But before I sleep, I take one last, long survey of the sky, freckled with thousands – no, millions – of stars. My eyes zero in on the one that shines the biggest, the brightest, and I whisper, “I’ll be okay, Marco. I’ll be okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you so much for reading! Constructive criticism is always welcome!
> 
> I also have a [tumblr](http://lanyrainicorn.tumblr.com) if you'd like to follow me.


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